


[tell me why you never promised to want it all]

by ephemerall



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-24
Updated: 2008-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemerall/pseuds/ephemerall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pain on her face makes his stomach twist, and when she cries out he has to fight to keep his hands steady.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[tell me why you never promised to want it all]

Sam rents one of those by-the-hour motel rooms. She’s still bleeding, and the look on her face tells him that this hurts. The hotel is dark and dingy when he kicks the door open. She’s leaning on him so heavily now that he’s almost carrying her, and it’s not that she can’t handle a few cuts; it’s that Alastair used the demon-killing knife. Her breaths are coming harsh, but she’s not saying anything, and when Ruby’s quiet like this it makes Sam a little nervous. He keeps her close to his body while he walks them across the room, and helps her sit down on the bed, easing her down.

He kneels down between her knees, and even though his hands are a little sticky with her blood, he puts both hands on either sides of her face. “Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

She nods, but he can see something in her face; over time he’s gotten good at reading her expressions. “M’okay,” she says, but her voice betrays her.

He’s not sure he means to, but he leans up and kisses her. Her mouth is warm and tastes a little metallic, like her blood, but he doesn’t pull away. He keeps kissing her until he feels her hand squeezing his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says, resting his forehead against hers. “I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I knew he was going to do this to you.”

“We did what we had to,” she replies. “I’ll be fine.”

He nods curtly. “Arms up,” he says quietly. She doesn’t ask any questions, just does what Sam tells her to. He carefully peels the bloody tee-shirt away from her skin and she gasps. “I know,” he says sympathetically. He pulls the shirt all the way over her head and discards it to the floor. Her white bra is stained, and her stomach is slick and bloody, a spattering of deep slashes. He inspects closely, makes sure nothing has gone through the muscle, and they’re lucky it hasn’t, just through most of the skin. “They’re pretty deep,” he says, looking up at her, and she nods. “Where else?”

“Legs,” she answers. She moves her hands to her belt and they shake while she unbuckles it. He doesn’t know her to outwardly display she’s in pain, when she feels it, but it’s obvious to him that she hurts, and that she hurts a lot.

He puts his hands over hers, stops her, and she looks at him. “Let me,” he says softly. She sits there a minute, his hands over hers, and he’s not sure what he sees in her eyes, but it’s nothing he’s afraid of, nothing he doesn’t want to see. She lets him push her hands away. “Here, lie back,” he says, and eases her onto her back; he can still feel her trembling. He carefully peels her jeans off and she squeezes her eyes shut, her lips pressed tight together like she’s trying to keep in a scream or a cry. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

He drops her bloody jeans on the floor next to her ruined shirt.

Her legs are cut up worse than her stomach; they’re just as deep, only there are more. He prods gently at a cut on her thigh and her legs shake with the effort not to pull away. “Stay here, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says tightly. Her eyes are still closed.

He goes to the bathroom and she can hear him running water, and then she can hear him rummaging through his bag. He comes back and sits on the edge of the bed and she opens her eyes; he has one of the stiff motel towels folded on the bedside table, and a wet towel. “I’m going to clean the wounds,” he says.

He doesn’t wait for her to answer, just presses the wet towel to her stomach. She makes a noise in her throat that he can’t define; it’s not a whimper, but it lets him know she’s in pain. He moves carefully and methodically, mopping blood off of her body, dabbing at each individual wound. They’re ugly, like Alastair heated the knife before he cut her up.

“I can’t heal them,” she says. “You’re going to have to stitch them.”

“Is it because he used the knife?” Sam asks and she nods; her body jerks when he presses the towel to the deepest wound on her thigh. “I have stuff in my bag. Will Vicodin do anything for you?”

“This body is still human; all the things that would work for you will work for me,” she answers.

“I’ll get it for you.”

“No,” she says. “Just… just do it.”

The pain on her face makes his stomach twist, and when she cries out he has to fight to keep his hands steady. “I’m almost done,” he whispers. She fists her hands in the sheets and twists hard. When he finishes, he takes one of Dean’s flasks out of his duffel, confident that it’s filled with some kind of liquor. He twists open the cap and doesn’t warn her before he pours it over her cuts.

“Son of a bitch!” She screams, but not as loud as she could, and he tries to ignore that when she squeezes her eyes shut tears roll from the corners of her eyes. He wipes his hands off and touches her face.

“Hey,” he says softly and she opens her eyes, breathing heavily through her nose. “You alright?”

“I’ll live,” she answers.

She sits up and takes the flask from his hands, drinking deep; she’s still in her bra and panties, both stained with her blood. They sit there for a pair of minutes, not talking, listening to each other breathe. She moves first, touches Sam’s arm to make him look at her. If it hurts to move she doesn’t say anything, because she leans up on her knees, straddling his legs, and holds his face in both hands. They look at each other for a moment before she’s pressing her mouth to his and he doesn’t hesitate. He slides his hands up her back and the skin is smooth, warm, and he slides them back down to her waist, grinding her down against him. She pulls at his belt and he unhooks her bra. He tears his mouth away for breath when she gets her hand on his dick.

He leaves his clothes on the floor, a foot or so away from hers so they don’t stain, and lies on his back; he figures it might be less painful if she’s on top, so he isn’t pressing his body into her wounds. He digs his fingers into the flesh of her hips when she slides down on his cock, warm and soft like she always is. He skims his hands up her sides, thumbs under her breasts and then over them; she arches into his touch and rides him in perfect rhythm. He slides his hands back down to her waist and around her front, mindful of her wounded stomach, sliding his hand down through the coarse curls between her legs, pressing his thumb against her clit. She gasps, throwing her head back and arching her spine. The sight of her like this makes him almost come. The way she feels, the tightness of her, the softness and slickness, the way she breathes and the sounds she makes are all things about her he’s come to know so well, things he’s grown accustomed to and can’t go without anymore. When she leans forward, pressing her body to his, he can feel some slickness from her stomach to his, letting him know they’ve aggravated her wounds.

“You ok?” he pants, breath coming sharp and quick. It’s hard to think when he’s inside of her.

“I’m fine,” she replies, digging her fingers into his shoulders and pressing her face into his neck. “Sam, please…” her voice quivers and she’s shaking with the need to come. He presses one hand to the small of her back, thrusting up into her harder, a little deeper, and with his other hand rubs tight, quick circles over her clit. Her breath is warm, damp against his skin, and she gasps so loud when she comes. Her legs shake around him, her whole body trembling with the force of it, and he knows he won’t last much longer while she’s contracting around him and pulling him deeper. He plants both hands on her ass, getting as much leverage as he can to fuck up into her. The hitch in his breath is what lets her know he’s just about there and she kisses him, wet and dirty, thrusting her tongue into his mouth and swallowing his moans while he comes.

Coming down he wants to stay here so much longer than he can, keep her body pressed close to him, warm and real and alive. He doesn’t think about what Alastair could have done to her, so much worse than cutting her up – he could have raped her or killed her – and it makes Sam want to pull the blackness right out of him and watch it disintegrate through the floor on its way back to Hell. He tries to keep his hand steady when he reaches for the damp towel.

“Here,” he says quietly, leaning up on his arm and dabbing at the stitched cuts. There are thin rivulets of blood running down her legs from pulling her stitches, but she doesn’t complain. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m ok,” she says, and he knows the lull in her voice means she’s exhausted. “Just tired.”

“The hex bag is under your pillow,” he says, wiping blood off of her stomach and then off of his own. “Keep it close to you; I don’t want any of them to find you.” She nods, eyes closed. “Promise me you’ll stay here and rest for a little while.”

“Ok,” she whispers. “I promise.”

He kisses her softly, pulls the bunched sheets and comforter over her. “You know where to find me.”

“Always.”


End file.
